The King of All Wild Things
by audreyii-fic
Summary: or, Every Fandom Needs a Coffee Shop AU. (Claire/Owen, and Barista!Raptor Squad. Which is exactly what it sounds like.)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** : I am fairly confident that no one has done this yet. Which isn't surprising, because it's ridiculous. BUT THAT WILL NEVER STOP ME. I REGRET NOTHING.

* * *

 _And when he came to the place where the wild things are, they roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws till Max said, "Be still" and tamed them with the magic trick of staring into all their yellow eyes without blinking once. And they were frightened and called him the most wild thing of all and made him king of all wild things._  
 _– **Maurice Sendak, "Where the Wild Things Are"**_

* * *

"Get rid of them."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me."

"You toured the area for ten minutes, Mr. Grady."

"Yeah, and I only needed two." He'd thought the rumors were bullshit, but— "They're uncontrolled. Wild. Beyond rehabilitation. Clean house before they kill again."

Claire Dearling's smile could cut glass. "They did not _kill_ Robert Muldoon, Mr. Grady," she corrected, shuffling paper on her more-expensive-than-Owen's-car desk with exaggerated patience. "He died of a stroke—"

"A _stress-induced_ stroke."

"The cause was indeterminate."

"Uh-huh. Some people would call it murder." Claire shot him a look of utter disbelief, so Owen graciously amended: "Okay, manslaughter… unless you're in Texas. It would _definitely_ be murder in Texas."

There were several things about this woman that had impressed Owen so far (and _impressed_ is not the same thing as _liked_ , you can be _impressed_ by how a mongoose eats a cobra and still not want to take it home), but the _most_ impressive thing about her was her eye-roll. She really made eye-rolling a work of art. "Mr. Grady," she said, "I have no interest in hyperbole — or, so far, in much of _anything_ you've had to say—"

Ouch. "And here I thought you and I had a connection."

"—so if you're not interested in the job, then this interview has been a waste of our mutual time."

"Hey, just a reminder, but I never actually _applied_. You guys called _me_." Owen paused. "Why did you, anyway?"

"Because when we approached him for recommendations, Alan Grant seemed to think you would have the skills we need." Everything about her tone said that Grant had just earned an enemy for life. "He's usually very reliable, so it's a shame his insight has—" a judicious beat "—erred."

Okay, that was a low blow. "Grant knows what he's talking about," Owen snapped. "We used to work together. He _taught_ me how to turn crappy places around. It's not like I can't do the job."

"No? That seemed to be the implication."

"All I'm saying is, in my professional opinion—"

Claire snorted delicately.

"—in my _professional_ opinion," Owen continued through gritted teeth (just because he didn't wear a power suit and dominatrix bangs didn't mean he wasn't as good at his job at any bloodless viper in spotless heels), "the fastest way to solve your problem is to _remove_ the problem. So get rid of them."

"Absolutely not. Mr. Masrani is very insistent."

"Why? Jeez, It's not like they have pictures of Masrani in bed with Donald Trump." He blinked. "Do they?"

Claire acted as though she hadn't heard him, but — and he could be wrong about this — he _thought_ he caught the hint of a genuine smirk. "Mr. Masrani was hand-picked by John Hammond as his successor," she said, "and he is still very loyal to Mr. Hammond's memory."

Oh, _great_. With deep misgiving, Owen ventured, "Family?"

"Goddaughters."

He couldn't help it — he groaned. Loudly enough for the secretary outside to pop her head over the wall of her cubicle. "Hammond's been dead for, what, two years? I really don't think he'll care."

"Mr. Grady—"

"Call me Owen."

" _Mr. Grady_ , however you or I may feel about it—" (which Owen interpreted as to mean she completely agreed with him but was way too uptight to say so) "—the current employees come with the job, and you would be expected to manage them."

"Train them, you mean."

"If that's what you want to call it." Claire smiled again, and again it didn't touch her eyes. He liked the smirk better. "To be perfectly frank, the café is only ours because it came with the building and Mr. Masrani has a philosophical objection to Starbucks franchises. All we need is someone to get the place open and closed every day without violating health codes. If a profit can be turned, that's great, but no one really cares. Nearly a thousand people work here. They need a place to get a cup of coffee. Are you capable of providing that, Mr. Grady?"

Owen thought about what he'd just seen downstairs: four college-age brats with shit attitudes, drunk on the power of controlling the only espresso machine in a two block radius. And they were unfireable.

'Thanks, but no thanks' was on the tip of his tongue…

…until he saw Claire Dearling's waiting, knowing little look.

She thought he wouldn't do it.

"Sure," Owen said, leaning back in the chair with a casual shrug. "Why not. I'll strap on my Kevlar and tame the wild things — but I want a signing bonus."

If she felt any surprise, Owen had to give it to her — she hid it well. "I'll pass it along to Mr. Masrani," she said. "Really, though, there's no need for the theatrics, Mr. Grady. You're not going to war, you're running a coffee shop. How hard can it be?"

He grinned. "You've obviously never worked in the food industry."

There it was again. That almost-smirk.

It brightened everything about her.

"And how do you take _your_ coffee?" Owen heard himself ask. "Sweet?" Because flirting with his boss thirty seconds after being hired was fan-fuckin'-tastic idea. "Smooth?" But he couldn't help it. He liked the smirk. And even the dominatrix bangs, just a little bit. "Strong?"

Claire blinked once. Twice. (Owen just stared right back; good practice for downstairs.) Finally, she stood and extended her hand. "I'll send your paperwork over to HR," she said coolly. "Welcome to Masrani Global, Mr. Grady. I'm sure it will be an adventure."

"Yeah. Thanks."

"And I like all three."

"Huh?"

She sat back down and began to primly peck away at her tablet. "My coffee," she said, nonchalant. "I like it sweet _and_ smooth _and_ strong." That tiny smirk was playing around her lips again. "I'm very particular."

Damn. "Lucky you," he said. " _All three_ is my specialty."

"I doubt that, Mr. Grady."

Yeah. He'd have her eating out of his hand within the month, or die trying.

But first, some wild things needed to learn there was a new boss in town.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N** : Each chapter will be teensy and short. Because that's how I roll. __Picture Barista!Raptors as combos of Lisbeth Salander and Gogo Yubari. Maybe with a dash of Harley Quinn._

* * *

 _"Not. For. Anything."_

"Dude, come on." Owen banged his head against his desk (which was tucked behind fifty-pound bags of Nicaraguan Dark Roast); a six-inch stack of shipment orders cushioned the blow. "Help me out here. I need a day off."

 _"So just take one."_

"Can't. That would leave the girls by themselves."

 _"They managed before you were hired."_

"Trust me, they did _not_ 'manage'. There was no 'managing' going on in here."

Barry rolled his eyes on the other end of the line. (Owen didn't have to see it to know.) _"Your sales pitch needs some work. Plus, I've_ got _a job."_

"Your boss is an asshole."

"You're _an asshole."_

Fair point. "Just think about it. Assistant manager's a pretty sweet gig. Masrani adds a lot of zeros onto a paycheck. And, uh… the girls aren't that bad. Really."

 _"You're so full of shit, Grady."_

Another fair point. "Seriously, man," Owen pleaded. "I've worked twenty-six days in a row. Before long _I'm_ going to turn feral and start biting the heads off live chickens."

 _"They_ do _that?"_

"Maybe. I don't track their off-hours." A chime rang through the shop. "Gotta run — another dissatisfied customer to disarm. I miss the Navy."

 _"No, you don't."_

True.

It only took thirty seconds for Owen to get from the back room to the register, but that was more than enough time for Charcoal Suit Who Obviously Doesn't Read Yelp Reviews to get pissed off. "Excuse me," he said, waving his hand in front of Delta's face. "Excuse me!"

Delta's eyes stayed closed, her head bobbing along to her iPod.

Figured.

Owen wasted no time in yanking the earbuds out. "Register," he said, ignoring the girl's squawk of rage. "Nickelback is for break time."

He knew for a fact that Delta listened to Russian death metal, which was at least part of the reason she glared at him like she'd happily flay him alive.

Owen glared right back. "Don't give me that shit," he warned. "Do your job, or the iPod gets steamed brevé. And Charlie," he added, not bothering to look over his shoulder, "get your ass off the counter."

The laugh behind him sounded more like a bark, but he heard steel-toed Doc Martens hit the tile, so that was something.

"Um…" The suit glanced towards the door. "You know, I think I'll come back another time."

"Don't even think about it," said Owen. He still hadn't broken eye contact with Delta. Charlie was disinterested, Echo was prone to sabotage, and Blue (who refused to be called Bravo — near as Owen could tell, half the girls' problems came from being raised by a marine with PTSD who named by military code) had sky-high control issues, but Delta was the one most given to random, pointless acts of mutiny. Like this. She looked ready to claw his face off with her three-inch gel nails for daring to suggest she'd sully her ears with Nickelback.

Owen just narrowed his eyes. "Seriously?" he told her. "Of all the stupid shit to fight about, _this_ is the hill you want to die on?"

Another beat.

Then Delta heaved a huge sigh. Disdain dripped from every inch of her turn to the register, but turn to the register she did. She crooked her finger at the suit.

"Macchiato," the suit said.

Delta rang it up. Owen thought about ordering her to ask the customer if he wanted an extra shot of espresso, but decided not to push his luck. He also decided to ignore the fact that he could see Charlie grinding up decaf. At least she was making the drink without being asked.

After the customer was gone — without leaving a tip in the jar — Owen tossed them each a Jolly Rancher from the stash he kept in his pocket. "There," he said. "Good girls."

Delta snorted, and Charlie snickered, but they both ate their candies without hesitation.

Baby steps.


End file.
